Jian sat stiffly in the far corner of the tractor's bench, his back pressed against the cold metal side. The seat beside him was dirtied with dried leaves and a mud-caked glove, so he perched at the edge, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Nansich. His fingers dug into the edge of the seat, clenched so tightly the skin stretched pale.
"Ahmm… where are you going today, milord?" Nansich said in a ridiculous British accent, trying to lighten the heavy silence between them.
Jian turned his head slowly and stared at him blankly. His eyes were empty—not angry, not amused. Just… tired.
"The plaza," he said, voice low and without inflection.
"Oh, our old hangout spot!" Nansich chuckled nervously. "Who you meeting there? Got new friends?" His voice cracked slightly at the word "friends," like it wasn't something he knew how to say without irony.
